


Hurry Down the Chimney Tonight

by Laur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bittersweet, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, Love, M/M, aziraphale being dramatic, crowley being a pine tree, magical mistletoe, warlock being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: “Nanny can be Mrs. Claus, then,” Warlock declared, in the tone of voice that made it clear he had solved all their problems.Nanny Ashtoreth’s face appeared to flush several shades darker. Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat and forced a giggle out of him.(Aziraphale and Crowley's plan to cheer up the Antichrist on Christmas successfully cheers them up as well.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Santa Claus/Nanny Ashtoreth
Comments: 16
Kudos: 63





	Hurry Down the Chimney Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from Santa Baby. Yes, I had far too much fun writing this.

Shrouded by the darkness of a cold winter’s night, a nervous figure skulked across the American Ambassador’s rooftop. Said ambassador was not home, which might have been a problem if the figure were there for him. With only its silhouette visible, the intruder could easily be mistaken for a thief, or a vandal, or somebody with an oddly-named cat.

It was none of those things. In fact, it was an angel.

“Why, oh why, did I let you talk me into this?” Aziraphale bemoaned, and tugged his red stocking hat down to shield his ears from the wind’s bite. At another gust, he grabbed onto the edge of the chimney with a white-knuckled grip and peered down into the pitch darkness, which no doubt hid unspeakably awful things. Like ash. And soot. His heavy sigh was appreciated by precisely no one. This was going to take a rather large miracle to pull off.

Well, it was Christmas eve after all. Very early Christmas, actually.

It was Christmas and Mr. Dowling was away on business and Warlock was only five and didn’t understand the brittleness of his mother’s false cheer or why his father wasn’t there. He’d complained all day about having to wait to open his many, many (too many) gifts until his father could video call, even though he’d been being good for ages (about two weeks, at Aziraphale’s count). Of course, Crowley insisted Warlock was only being good so that he would get more presents, which qualified as both lying and greed.

“He’s being duplicitous to avoid being put on the naughty list,” Crowley had pointed out earlier that evening, after Warlock, Mrs. Dowling, and the live-in security guards were in bed. Like the rest of the staff, the nanny and the gardener had been given leave to go home for the holidays, but they’d both opted to stay at the Dowling residence, citing a lack of family to return to. Aziraphale was just glad he could keep the bookshop closed during the busiest gift-giving season. “He’s a sneaky little bugger, angel.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale allowed, adding a splash of liqueur to his hot cocoa and settling into a stiff armchair. The gardener’s rooms on the corner of the property were quaint and private, and the cozy seating area had become a favourite spot for the angel and demon to compare notes. “But he asked Father Christmas for the ability to make slime so he could play with the snails. Not the most diabolical of wishes.”

Crowley swirled his glass of wine, the curve of his wrist catching Aziraphale’s eye. “That just means you aren’t slacking as the good influence.”

“True.”

They sipped their beverages in comfortable silence, listening to the wind whistling past the windows and the quiet strains of Mozart lilting through the room. Aziraphale had unequivocally prohibited any of Crowley’s dreadful Christmas CDs from entering the cottage. 

“It’s a shame Mr. Dowling isn’t home, though,” Aziraphale said. Warlock had accompanied him to select a Christmas tree last week, and Aziraphale had been privy to the boy’s disappointment. He may have been the Antichrist, but at times he seemed just like a regular (if spoiled) human child.

Crowley snorted. “Par for the course with him.”

“He does have important responsibilities,” Aziraphale countered instinctively.

“More important than your own kid? Know what else Warlock asked Father Christmas for? For his dad to come home.”

“I’m sure if he could be home, he would be.”

“I’m just glad his _real_ father hasn’t been checking in.” He tipped back the last of his wine.

Aziraphale murmured an agreement and grabbed the bottle.

Unmoving in the other armchair, Crowley’s gaze was intent as he watched Aziraphale lean closer to refill his glass. “You know, you would make a good Father Christmas.”

“Me?”

“Sure. You’re jolly and you’ve got white hair and you go around judging people for being naughty or nice.”

“I don’t judge!”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised in blatant disbelief.

“That’s the job of the almighty. You know, Father Christmas sounds rather blasphemous when you put it like that.”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just a ploy to give parents a few weeks of peace over the holidays. Besides, it’s your own fault for making the original Nicholas a saint.”

“It wasn’t my idea.” Aziraphale put down the bottle and returned to his cocoa, missing the change in Crowley’s expression that warned he was up to no good.

Crowley stood up and snapped his fingers, so that when Aziraphale looked up he found Nanny Ashtoreth. “I know how we can cheer up our dear Antichrist.”

Aziraphale squinted at her. “How?”

“Are you up for a little Christmas miracle?”

By the time Aziraphale clattered out of the fireplace, nearly stepping on an inconveniently placed plate of biscuits, his dignity was in tatters but his long robes were still pristine. There were two shadows crouched behind the living room sofa, peeking at him while Aziraphale straightened his outfit.

“Told you I heard something,” Nanny Ashtoreth whispered into Warlock’s ear.

The boy’s eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. For a heart-stopping moment, Aziraphale worried Warlock would recognize him despite the costume and facial hair, but then Warlock jumped to his feet with a muffled shriek.

“Santa?!”

A jolly smile split Aziraphale’s lips. “Ho, ho! Warlock, dear boy, aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

Warlock glanced at his nanny and back, fidgeting with the hem of his pajama shirt. “Nanny woke me up.”

“It’s alright, dear,” Nanny murmured, lips twitching as she took in Aziraphale’s getup. “Tell him about all your good deeds so he’ll give you a present.” She nudged him forward with a hand on his back.

Warlock shuffled closer, still looking at Aziraphale with an awe he hadn’t been the target of since angels revealing themselves to humans had gone out of style. Even then, no one had ever looked at him like this. “I saved a snail before. And I ate broccoli. And I hugged my mommy when she was sad. And I made you milk and cookies.”

Aziraphale glanced at the plate and glass he’d nearly upended. One of the biscuits had a small but distinct bite shape missing. “I see that! How thoughtful.” He crouched to bring their faces level. “And what about for your nanny? Have you been being good for her?”

Warlock nodded automatically, but glanced at his nanny for confirmation.

“He’s been absolute angel,” she said through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale swallowed a laugh as Warlock turned back to him triumphantly.

“Mr. Santa?”

“Yes, dear?”

“How much other kids did you go to?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Aziraphale hedged. “You’re the only one who’s caught me, though.”

“Wow,” Warlock breathed, drawing out the word. “How’d you get here?”

“With my reindeer.”

“Where are they?”

“Erm. On the roof.”

“Can I see them?”

“No!”

“Aw. Why not?”

Nanny Ashtoreth, perched on the arm of the sofa, watched Aziraphale fumble through the barrage of questions with poorly disguised mirth. This curiosity had to be her doing; the gardener had certainly never encouraged this kind of behaviour.

“Because…because they’re invisible! Yes, magic reindeer, you can’t see them.”

Warlock accepted this. “What about Mrs. Claus?”

“What about her?”

“Is she helping you?”

“Er, no, she’s…” Saint Nicholas had lived in Turkey and never married, but obviously that story wasn't exciting enough for kids these days.

“Is she away like Daddy?”

“Well, technically, I’m the one—” At Nanny Ashtoreth’s snickering, Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose a bit like your father. But your father will come home soon.”

“Maybe Mommy can be like Mrs. Claus,” Warlock offered, and Nanny Ashtoreth made a wheezing noise, covering her mouth with her hand. “I can go get her.”

“No! Uh, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

At long last, Nanny Ashtoreth took pity on Santa. “Your mother wouldn’t be able to see him, dear.”

“How come?”

“Because only children can see Father Christmas.”

Aziraphale nodded along. “Yes, precisely.”

Warlock mulled this over, then gave his nanny a shrewd look. “How can _you_ see him then?”

Ah, she’d walked right into that one. Another ploy where she’d forgotten to take herself into consideration.

“Because she believes in me.”

Nanny Ashtoreth’s head jerked up to look at him, her lips parting. Aziraphale’s smile was no longer so jolly, but was entirely sincere.

“Normally people don’t believe in me. But she does. She always has. So she can see me.”

In the dark of the Dowling’s living room, with the lights on the Christmas tree dancing over their expressions, an angel and a demon gazed at each other. The lighthearted evening had grown ponderous with their allusions and illusions both.

“Nanny can be Mrs. Claus, then,” Warlock declared, in the tone of voice that made it clear he had solved all their problems.

It was difficult to see in the low light, but Nanny Ashtoreth’s face appeared to flush several shades darker. Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat and forced a giggle out of him.

Nanny Ashtoreth cleared her throat and no longer met Aziraphale’s eyes. “How could I take care of you, then, dear?”

Before Warlock could think of some other solution, Aziraphale performed a hasty miracle and produced a gift-wrapped box from behind his back. “Since you’ve been so good, Warlock, I’ve brought you something.”

Attention successfully diverted, Warlock’s eyes fixed on the box, his hands reaching automatically. “What is it?”

“Whatever you would like best.”

Nanny Ashtoreth jerked to her feet. “Uh, ang – er, Mr. Claus, I’m not sure that’s the best idea—”

But the Antichrist had already seized the box and torn off the lid, and was now peering inside with an expression of unholy glee.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale braced himself for something dreadful, like a man-eating spider or a minimalist nativity set or the extended edition of The Sound of Music.

The box dropped to the floor with a soft thud. In Warlock’s hands was a fluorescent, toxic green sphere, its light casting a sickly glow onto the boy’s beaming face. Aziraphale took a step back.

Nanny Ashtoreth reached out, like she was prepared to grab Aziraphale and bolt. “What is it? What is it?”

Warlock cracked open the sphere and from its insides pulled free a stretchy, viscous, possibly poisonous substance. “Sliiiiime!” he cried, which would have woken the household if not for yet another quick miracle.

The cracked sphere fell back into the box with a plastic clink as Warlock smooshed his hands together, giggling as the slime oozed through his fingers. He stretched it like dough, rolled it back into a ball, and threw it to the floor with a satisfying splat, then retrieved it to squish again.

Aziraphale exhaled heavily and Nanny Ashtoreth sagged back onto the sofa. “Slime,” she repeated weakly.

“Apologies, my dear,” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands. “It turned out for the best, though.”

“Feel!” A small hand grabbed Aziraphale’s and pressed the ball of slime into his palm with more force than was necessary, ensuring the sticky substance spread to contaminate more of his skin.

“ _Ugh_.” Aziraphale shuddered.

Warlock giggled some more and pulled the slime away with an unpleasant sucking sensation.

Composed once again, Nanny Ashtoreth stood and placed a hand on Warlock’s shoulder. “Alright, dear, Father Christmas has lots of other children to be getting to. Say goodnight and back into bed with you.”

“But, Nannyyy…” Warlock whined, in a way that truly grated the ear. There was a reason Aziraphale played the gardener despite Crowley being the one with a green thumb.

“The sooner you sleep, the sooner you can open the rest of your gifts, my child.”

Warlock shuffled his feet sulkily, but managed a mumbled ‘goodnight’. When Aziraphale stood, he stiffened as the boy lunged at him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Thank you, Santa.”

Nanny Ashtoreth looked at this unprompted display of gratitude with raised eyebrows. Aziraphale, distracted by thoughts of slime sticking to his back, patted the Antichrist on the head.

“You’re very welcome, Warlock. Keep being a good boy, you hear?”

Nanny Ashtoreth glared and took Warlock’s slime-free hand, ushering him to bed with mutterings of _bribery_ and _what did I say about saying thank you_.

Alone in the living room, Aziraphale straightened his fur-lined cloak and checked for slime. His eyes fell upon the plate with its partially eaten biscuit and his lips tugged into a smile. Humming under his breath, Aziraphale picked up two of the biscuits and left half of the third. He didn’t dare eat them – Warlock had likely had his grubby little fingers all over them – but he had to make it _appear_ as though he had, or the boy would be crushed.

He took the biscuits and the glass into the kitchen for disposal, oblivious to the irony of trying to cheer up the Antichrist on Christmas. He was in the process of dumping the lukewarm milk down the drain when Nanny Ashtoreth’s light footfall returned.

“He’s ecstatic,” she announced and Aziraphale turned, finding her leaning with her hip against the counter and stern lips twitching with amusement. “It’ll take ages for him to get back to sleep.”

“Mission accomplished, then?” He fiddled with the empty glass and gave a timid smile.

“I’d say so. Even if you did push the ‘being good’ thing a bit hard. What are you, the propaganda Santa?”

Aziraphale _tsk_ ed, his shoulders relaxing with the familiar banter. “That’s Father Christmas’s _job_ , I could hardly pretend otherwise.”

“The boy’s a menace. You know what he just said to me? He said he wouldn’t mind letting me go with you so long as I came back after Christmas. The entitlement!”

Aziraphale thought that very sweet, but he played along. “You must be so proud.”

She snorted and Aziraphale went back to fiddling with the glass. He wondered if he could invite her back to the cottage again.

“A nanny would probably like it though,” she said, slow and stilted. “A daring escape with Father Christmas. There’ve definitely been songs about that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale did his best to avoid modern Christmas music, but even he knew what songs she was talking about. The glass clattered onto the countertop, hope and want and fear warring in his chest. “Have there?” His voice came out too strained.

She coughed lightly and pushed away from the counter, regret flickering across her face. She patted down her hair. “You don’t need to leave by the chimney, angel,” she said, breaking character. “I can walk you out, if you want.”

It was a peace offering, an easy out. _It was just a bit of banter,_ that tone of voice said. _Didn’t mean anything, forget all about it_.

Twisting his fingers, Aziraphale made himself look at her, really look at her. At the sunglasses and perfectly coiffed hair and the starched-stiff suit and the hesitant twist to her red lips. He glanced down at the fur cuffs of his red robe, incongruous with his usual pale suit jacket. He wasn’t Aziraphale tonight and that wasn’t Crowley. They weren’t an angel and a demon, but Father Christmas and a young boy’s nanny.

It was a night of magic and pretend, what was one more scene?

Abandoning the glass, Father Christmas flicked his fingers and rounded the counter as a small miracle diffused through the kitchen. When he took Ms. Ashtoreth’s hand, her eyebrows jumped up her forehead.

“Aziraphale?”

Father Christmas shook his head. “Not tonight.”

Her eyebrows jumped back down, then inched up again, a dance of confusion and shock. “Oh,” she breathed. She looked down at their hands, then into his eyes, then up over their heads, where a sprig of mistletoe floated in the air. “ _Oh_.”

It was bold, perhaps too bold, but it was the perfect excuse. Benefit of the doubt, twisting and bending the rules but never breaking them. “There’s a tradition, I believe,” he said, glancing up at the mistletoe himself. “I would be honoured to share a kiss you, Ms. Ashtoreth.”

“ _Ngh_ —yes, okay. Yes.”

She was the slightest bit taller than him, but easily compensated by slouching back against the counter, letting him crowd in close. With his free hand, he reached for her sunglasses.

“May I?”

She nodded, tight and jerky, one hand clutching at his and the other white-knuckled against the countertop. Willing his hand not to shake, he slipped her sunglasses off her face and placed them down blindly, unable to tear his gaze away from her wide, golden eyes, the slit pupils expanding helplessly.

“Stunning,” he sighed, and watched her eyelashes tremble, watched colour suffuse her cheeks. She kept his gaze stubbornly, even as he cupped her cheek and her eyelids grew heavy. Her lips parted and his eyes were caught again, this time by the splash of red lipstick, soft and familiar and so, so dear. How often had he gazed at those lips over the – no, no place for that.

“Well?” she urged, voice warm and low enough to mostly hide its tremble. “I know you have places to be, Nicholas.”

Rather than snap him out of it, the sound of that name drew him deeper into the fantasy, gave him the courage to lean closer, to close his eyes, to bring their lips together sweetly. It was gentle, so gentle, even his whiskers soft against her face. Heat and shaky breath blooming between them, she made a high noise and tilted her head, deepening the kiss as his thumb stroked her cheek and his fingertips nudged into her hair. Her free hand came up to clutch at his shoulder, then slid up his neck and into his hair, knocking off his hat so she could drag her fingers through well-loved curls.

This close, he could smell past her floral perfume to the rich, almost spicy scent underneath. Combined with the taste of her, it nearly knocked him out of the role he played. He let his mind drift instead, thoughts warm and fuzzy and filled with nothing but sensation. He let the kiss consume him, let himself melt against her as their lips became plump and tender and their tongues made teasing overtures. When her teeth grazed his bottom lip, he gasped.

Something fell onto his head and then onto the floor with a quiet rustle. He jumped, which made her twitch, and they both looked at the mistletoe lying guiltily by their feet.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Oops.”

She snorted, then he giggled, and then they were both bent over, snickering and pressing their faces into the other’s shoulder to muffle themselves. By the time they’d calmed, they were both teary-eyed and red-cheeked, lips twitching with amusement and what could only be love.

Without their convenient excuse, he let her lead him through the dark to the front door, hands still clasped. Once there, however, she stopped him before he could grasp the handle.

“Oh, my, another one?”

He followed her pointing finger to find another – perhaps the same – sprig of mistletoe. “Well, if we must, we must.”

They spent another several minutes standing in the doorway kissing, her hands smoothing over his shoulders and down his chest and back into his hair. His fingertips brushed the skin over her high collar before his hands slid down her arms to settle on her waist, both of them shivering under the other’s touch. When it grew to be too much, when they both ached for something more, they pulled apart, breath heavy and eyes dark.

“I wish—”

“Me too.”

They gazed at each other for a short while longer, swallowing the ache and committing the moment to memory.

“Go on, then,” she finally whispered, clasping her hands behind her back. That posture made his heart clench fondly. “We both have other responsibilities to get to.”

The lines were blurring. “Perhaps I’ll see you again next year.”

Her breath hitched and she nodded tightly. “I’d like that.”

He nodded, too, hope sparking in his chest. He eased open the door and cold night air swept in, another reason for him to stay. “Goodnight, then.”

She stepped closer, spine stiff and eyes warm. “Goodnight.”

The door closed reluctantly between them, and he headed off into the dark.

On the other side of the door, she sagged, her jacket tight across her shoulders, holding her together. Once she’d mastered the wild urge to chase after him, she threw the lock, activated the alarm system, and returned to the kitchen to tidy away any evidence. The slime could be easily explained away as a gift from Warlock’s nanny, if his mother even noticed. The memory of tonight would feel like more of a dream by the time the Antichrist woke tomorrow, and the rest of his gifts would distract him from musing too heavily on the matter.

No, it was his nanny who would remember this night most vividly.

Later, in bed, Crowley curled on his side, a red stocking hat stuffed under his chin and a smile curving his lips.

Later, in the gardener’s cottage, Aziraphale sat in his armchair, eyes closed, basking, barely hearing Mozart playing in the background. He’d forgotten his hat, he’d realized, but in his hands was an unremarkable, slightly battered sprig of mistletoe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays! Hit me with a comment/kudos if you liked it and you can find me on [Tumblr](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
